


Time-Locked Room Murder

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [14]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a murder is committed aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor turns to Jenny and Vastra to sort things out. Can our heroines track down the killer before one of them becomes his next target?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time-Locked Room Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the delay, but here comes Season 2! This story takes place between The Snowmen and The Bells of St. John for the Doctor, who has been searching frantically for Clara before setting up as a monk.
> 
> See the end notes for possible (spoilery) triggers.

Another day, another meal, Vastra thinks, biting into a sausage. And another day's mail, she adds to the impromptu mental list, slicing open the day's letters.

“No news about that DeMarco fellow?” Jenny asks. Vastra shakes her head. Jenny didn't think there would be; he might well be from a thousand years in their past or their future, assuming that what they saw was even real.

“This year's almanac,” Vastra begins. “This coming winter is supposed to be more temperate.”

“Just as glad,” Jenny says, fiercely protective. “Had enough bloody snow these past two winters, between the Blizzard of '91 and that nonsense with Simeon.” Not to mention the cost of the extra coal, she thought.

“Indeed,” Vastra replied. “Are you certain you don't want to come away with me to the tropics?” she teases.

“I'm happy enough wherever you are, madame, but I think all that sunshine'd do dreadful things to my skin,” Jenny notes. “Anything else in the mail?”

“A note thanking us for arranging the late Miss Oswald's funeral,” Vastra observes. They both nod. It wouldn't do for a widower to be seen taking too much care over burying his late (young, pretty, female) governess. But an eccentric team of detectives known to have somewhat unusual tastes in acquaintance, on the other hand? Well, who can say. 

“Dreadful shame, that.” Jenny says, shaking her head. She hadn't gotten to know the young woman very well, but her spunk, caring nature, and good humor had left a favorable impression. “Don't know what about the whole business got the Doctor out of his funk, but I'm just as glad it did.”

Vastra nods severely. “I agree: it is good to see any friend lifted out of his depression, but all the more so when the fate of the planet rests so regularly upon that friend's shoulders.”

“Rather ruined the mood with him always around, and us fretting after him so, wouldn't you say, madame?” Jenny asks, reaching around Vastra from behind and planting a kiss on her cheek.

They are interrupted from anything further by a knock at the door. “Goddess only knows we have enough to worry about in this century,” Vastra mutters as Strax lets Doyle in.

***

They are on their way to the crime scene Doyle described, which sounds rather fascinating (at least in a professional sense; Vastra has long ago abandoned her desire to wipe humanity from the face of the planet) when they hear it.

“Bloody hell,” Jenny says, never mincing words. “Thought we were shut of him for a while.”

“There you are!” the Doctor calls, his voice unnervingly perky, particularly after his recent low period. “That temporal cloak of yours is really annoying sometimes, you know?”

“I do wish there was some way to let your TARDIS in specifically,” Vastra lies sweetly. “But what can be done?” The last thing they need is a blue box whooshing into their lives at all hours, in any room of the house.

“I could probably take a look at—” Jenny coughs, and for a miracle, the Doctor takes the hint. “I don't suppose you'd give me a hand with a murder?” he pleads.

***

He watches as the Doctor's TARDIS lands in the Victorian back alley. He sighs, supposing it would have been too much to expect a lone killer, no matter how creatively deranged, to succeed where so many have failed. Still, there were enough deranged lunatics and other pitfalls that he could throw into the Doctor's path. Sooner or later, one of them would succeed. 

He continues observing his quarry, briefly cursing the circumstances that left physical manifestation beyond him, then deciding that an immediate attack would be ill-advised. After all, merely killing the Doctor is far from his ultimate goal. He watches as the Doctor greets Jenny, Vastra, Strax, and Doyle. That lot again, he thinks, muscle memory letting him experience the ghost of a sneer. The Doctor certainly seems to value the noisy rabble, he notes. Perhaps he should destroy them as well? Yes, he thinks, his comfort for so long, snatched away from him. That will do nicely.

***

Vastra raises an eye ridge as they follow him into the TARDIS. “I should have thought you could solve—or commit—a simple crime by yourself,” she notes archly, recalling that the Doctor did not specify which end of the murder they were helping with. Doyle crosses himself as they pass the threshold of the police box.

The Doctor blushes. “I always read the end of mysteries first. And I'm always skipping around through time and space; the whole 'linear chain of cause and effect' thing never quite worked for me. And now all of a sudden someone's gone and gotten himself murdered on my TARDIS, and I haven't a clue.”

“Actually on the TARDIS?” Jenny asks, disbelieving. “I thought you just wanted us to go someplace with you.”

“Yeah, I know; I'm not exactly proud of it.” He rolls his eyes. “But what am I supposed to do now?”

“Surely there cannot be too many suspects,” Vastra says hopefully. She rarely knew the Doctor to travel regularly with more than three; if one was dead, that should leave no more than two suspects. As grisly as the math sounded, it would at least make their jobs easier.

The Doctor flushes under their scrutiny, sighing at last. “Come on out, gang,” he calls, and a handful of men and women trickle into the console room. 

“Bloody hell, Doctor; have you got Amelia Earhart in here?” The Doctor winces. “Sorry, sir,” Jenny apologizes.

“I take it you are still trying to distract yourself, Doctor?” Vastra asks quietly. She dares not even imagine what it must be like to lose those closest to you in a single blow.

“I've been looking for...someone,” he elides. “Haven't had any luck finding the right one, and so I keep picking up geniuses by mistake. Got a bit carried away, frankly,” he admits.

“Mistake?” asks a pale, almost wan young woman, who steps forward from the crowd, the rest still looking dubiously at Vastra. “This is the second time you've swept me off my feet, Doctor; I should be offended if they were both mistakes.”

The Time Lord coughs. “Vastra, Jenny, Doyle, meet Mary Shelley. We traveled together for a while, a few faces back. Mary, these are—”

“I think we've met,” Mary replies, eying them curiously. “Under strange circumstances, which perhaps you might explain.”

“You never did clear up what all that malarkey was,” Jenny adds. 

“Oh, that,” he says with a wave of his hand and false bonhomie, “just the result of a certain someone meddling with a fixed point in time. All of time and space, crunching together. Great big mess, but we sorted it all out. Come on,” he calls to the rest of the group, “she won't bite. And two of them haven't got any hair, Nikola; I know you've got a bit of a phobia.”

“Nikola Tesla,” says the man in question, keeping his distance. “How do you do?” Strax immediately corners the unwilling physicist to discuss the military applications of his inventions.

“Cleopatra,” begins a tall, bronzed woman. “The alchemist, not the pharaoh,” she adds with a sigh.

“She invented the alembic!” interjects the Doctor, overjoyed. “And as further proof of her brilliance, she thinks I look good in a fez, don't you, Cleo?”

Vastra coughs. “And who are these gentlemen?” she asks, gesturing to the last two.

“Isaac Asimov and George Washington Carver,” the Doctor proclaims. “If you want a book about robots or a way to use peanuts, these are your boys.”

“Begging your pardon,” Jenny begins with the unmistakeable mien of one who knows she is the least intelligent person in the room and about to make an obvious statement, “but you did say that someone had been murdered, and all of these people are still alive.”

“Ah, yes: Christopher Marlowe. Stabbed. Any ideas on what to do with the body?”

Vastra and Jenny exchange glances. “You might try making it look like a barfight gone wrong,” Jenny offers. That rather explains that, she thinks. Usually we're the one's solving mysteries, not making them.

“Jolly brilliant! Just have to make sure the queen doesn't run into me. Elizabeth, not Victoria, obviously,” he clarifies for Jenny and Vastra and Doyle, “though she doesn't much like me either, come to think of it.”

“So much for the state of temporal grace,” Vastra observes.

“Is he still peddling that line?” Mary asks. “I would have thought he'd come up with something else by now, after so many centuries.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “I don't usually pick people up for a second time, what with so many to choose from.”

“You do care!” she teases.

“And now you see why,” the Doctor sighs. “Come on, I'll show you Marlowe.”

***

“Are you the Mary Shelley, then?” Asimov asks.

“Are there others?” she asks in return.

“No,” he responds, blushing. “Not that I know of.” 

“Go on then...” She arches an eyebrow.

“Well, I must thank you; you created an entire genre with your brilliant Frankenstein!” Asimov expounds. “I suppose I shouldn't spoil that for you,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder.

Mary coughs. “I daresay I was there when it happened.”

“At any rate, I would not be here without you,” Asimov concludes. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Shelley tells him. She smiles. Brilliant, am I? She thinks. 

***

“Well, he is certainly dead,” Doyle proclaims, having finished his examination of the body and joining Vastra, Jenny, and Strax for a pow-wow in one of the TARDIS's many rooms. “Stabbed with a fairly modern knife, I should say. Good job the forensic sciences aren't very well developed in Marlowe's time.”

Jenny shakes her head. “Strax and I have searched the lot of them. No knives, no blood.”

“I hardly expected the killer would keep an easily discarded weapon.” Vastra sighs. “Then they are all suspects.”

Jenny laughs. “This'll be a hard one to explain to the magistrates, won't it, madame?”

“Harder still to the history books,” Doyle notes. 

“That has never stopped the Doctor,” Vastra observes archly. “Nor must we let it obscure the path of justice: a man is dead, after all, and we are all at risk. Let us speak to the Doctor; we must see if there is anyone else aboard the TARDIS.”

***

“Well,” he wheedles. “I won't say it's impossible. Just very unlikely. Have been making a lot of stops, lately. Might have left the door open a smidge more than strictly necessary. Things have been known to sneak aboard from time to time.” He frowns under Jenny and Vastra's exasperated looks. “Search parties, then?”

“We'll draw straws,” Doyle says. The Doctor bites his lip, clearly wanting to offer a far more interesting way of randomizing the parties' composition, but nods, producing a handful of straws and a pair of safety scissors from the inside of his coat. The scissors are pink and plastic and none of the others say a word. Even Strax seems to know better than to joke about these poor excuses for weapons. Perhaps his medical training leads him to favor the reduced rate of self-inflicted injuries; nothing valorous about slicing yourself open while cutting coupons.

“It's my special straw,” the Doctor says defensively, putting one of them carefully back into his jacket before snipping through the others. 

“Splendid,” Vastra says. She has grown used to feeling like the mother in the room when surrounded by her teenaged associates. Even among older humans, she still has many more years to her credit than they will, and her cold-blooded metabolism lends her a certain maturity of outlook which passes for wisdom. It is, indeed, a rather comforting feeling to have a family of one's own, even if they are humans. It is doubly nice, she decides, given that she will almost certainly never have children of her own blood, but she wouldn't trade Jenny for all the offspring she could raise. However, there is something disconcerting when the same feelings well up in relation to an uncountably old Time Lord. She inhales and exhales. This may well be a long day.

***

“You have started writing Sherlock Holmes, haven't you?” Asimov asks, hopefully. He wants, badly, to pick the brain of a fellow writer. He just hopes that the topics of conversation can range somewhat further than a handful of early short stories no-one has ever heard of, especially since he himself is planning on writing a bit of detective fiction himself. 

Doyle sighs. “Yes, I have. You can thank my three friends for that.”

“I should have thought you'd be prouder,” Asimov pries. 

“They have made me quite famous, and brought in a good bit of cash besides,” Doyle allows.

“Yes, indeed; I've heard of them, even across the pond. Sorry,” Asimov apologizes hastily as the Doctor, just ahead of them with Cleopatra, winces.

“Carry on, carry on,” the Doctor says, fatigued. “Mind the spoilers, though.”

“Yes, yes,” Asimov says impatiently. “Any advice for those of us who don't have a handy interspecies lesbian couple to draw on for inspiration?”

“You know, I was so keen on those stories to begin with, practically had to beg them to let me tag along,” Doyle begins. “And it's been a terrific lot of fun, keeping up with them, helping out as I can.” He winks. “And I must say, between the two of us, it does go a long way toward breaking up the monotony of my medical practice and my family. I love my wife and children dearly, but I think it does me good to slip away from time to time.” Asimov nods, and waits patiently for Doyle to continue, sensing that the man is on the verge of a revelation. “They've been very good to me, those stories, but I don't want them to be my tombstone, so to speak. I want people to know that I was more than just Holmes's biographer.” He smiles sadly. “I suppose you can't tell me how I am remembered?”

Asimov shakes his head. “I wouldn't worry overmuch about it,” he says evasively. 

Doyle smiles. “Well, then I am no worse off than I was before.”

“No, I suppose not,” Asimov replies, then hesitates. “I don't suppose you have any advice for a young writer?”

“Write what you know, and what you love,” Doyle begins. “And travel. See the world. Don't spend your whole life in...where do Americans live? New York?” The Doctor flinches again. “Sorry.”

***

“So, do you have any plans, once we've caught the murderer?” Mary asks Vastra, tone more inviting than innocent.

Vastra coughs. “I am married, you know.”

“I know. As am I. As is the Doctor, come to think of it. That hasn't stopped me, or him, or Percy, for that matter.” She winks at Vastra, whose crests flare to their fullest. Sweet goddess, she thinks, this girl and the Doctor? In bed together? The old man did rather seem to have a taste for his traveling companions: one more reason to stay home in Victorian England, she decides. “I shouldn't have thought you'd be the type to confine yourself to society's mores.”

“We do not,” Vastra replies bluntly. “We honor our promises to each other; that is all that is necessary.”

Mary curtsies. “You're a better woman than I, Madame Vastra.”

“Ask me again after a few drinks and where I can ask Jenny her thoughts on the matter,” Vastra rejoins. “And perhaps I'll show you how much better.” Strax walks ahead of them, trying valiantly not to listen. 

“To be perfectly honest, I'm just as happy to not risk destroying another marriage,” Mary confesses. “I was the other woman at first—so young, then, and foolish.” Vastra looks at her questioningly, but Mary merely shakes her head. “It is in the past,” she says, and peers into an alcove.

***

Jenny follows dutifully along behind Carver and Tesla, who are motoring along furiously about jargon, science, and other such arcana. She tries to store away such bits of their dialogue as she can comprehend, while still keeping her eyes open and senses keen for a possible ambush. She knows she is reasonably intelligent, as these things go, though she had met education rather later in life than she might have liked. Madame does tell her so with some regularity, but it is hard not to doubt her when Vastra makes logical leaps look as easy as skipping stones (which, to be fair, madame has not quite the grasp of that art; Doyle had launched into a complicated explanation involving the tendons of the wrist which Jenny only dimly remembers). Even Doyle or Strax, with their vast wealth of medical knowledge, made her look like an intellectual dwarf in comparison at times. She had put quite a lot of effort into making up for lost time, but it was hard to find dealers who would sell books on the sciences or ancient history to a young woman, and harder still to find time to read them in between solving cases and expanding her practical repertoire. The best was when she could combine the two, such as when she learned how to treat wounds or prepare explosive devices while mastering the basics of anatomy or chemistry and electricity at the same time. She shrugged. At the end of the day, she could run a house and a business, and defend them from all comers, to boot. That was good enough for madame, and it was good enough for her.

***

“To think that this is all within a police box,” Asimov muses as they probe deeper into the TARDIS. “One wonders if it is truly bigger, or if we are simply reduced to the size of specks of dust.”

“Either way, it is truly a fantastic voyage,” Cleopatra replies. “Surely this box is a treasure far greater than the philosopher's stone, capable of bringing us through the centuries, to the stars themselves.”

“Indeed; even we can only dream of traveling between them,” Asimov replies.

“You know, I met Tycho Brahe once. Ill-tempered bastard, but smart as a whip. Probably didn't deserve to die of mercury poisoning.”

“Mercury?” Cleopatra asks. “Quicksilver? Is it dangerous?”

“Very poisonous,” Doyle assures her.

“But necessary for alchemical research; without it I never could have made the philosopher's stone,” Cleopatra counters. Doyle blinks, and asks if she has had any success contacting the dead. “What sort of witchcraft do you think me capable of?” she demands angrily. “I'm an alchemist.”

“My apologies,” Doyle tells her with a bow.

***

“What about you, Strax?” Mary asks. “What do you think about love, and marriage?”

“As a member of a clone race, neither one holds any personal appeal. However,” he continues, “in general I am in favor of both!”

“Oh?” Vastra asks. To tell the truth, she had never thought to ask the loyal Sontaran, assuming the answer would be a flat negative.

“Insofar as both love and matrimony are prime causes for warfare, I must approve of both institutions!” Strax explains confidently.

“What about love beyond what two lovers feel for each other, or parents for their children?” Mary asks. “The love of friend for friend, or sibling for sibling.”

“All seven thousand, four hundred and twenty members of my clone batch feel sympathy for and allegiance to one another,” Strax admits. “Indeed, it would be fair to say that we would die for one another.”

“Strax, Sontarans are willing to die in battle regardless of circumstances,” Vastra points out.

“The fact remains!” Strax counters. Mary chuckles. 

***

“Doctor?” Doyle asks, somewhat perturbed by what Asimov and Cleopatra had said earlier. “Pray, is there much more of your ship to search?” The Doctor merely laughs in reply. Doyle sighs. He supposes he should be used to being somewhat on the outside where these things are concerned. “If we do find the intruder—presuming there is one—how will we tell the others to stop looking.”

“Homing beacon,” the Doctor explains, producing a red, metallic disk. “Just push this button, and they'll all start beeping, leading us back to the console room, or this button, and they'll start homing in on you. Don't know why I didn't come up with these sooner.”

“Hang on just a minute,” Cleopatra interrupts. “What do you mean 'presuming there is one'? You aren't implying that one of us might have done it?”

“I can't say I've heard of you, Madame Cleopatra,” Doyle begins. “So yes, perhaps I am.”

“Look, I can vouch for her,” the Doctor begins. “Just because you haven't heard of her doesn't mean she's a nobody.”

“Can she vouch for you?” Asimov asks. “It seems only fair to throw you under suspicion with the rest of us, since you know your way around the TARDIS the best. Perhaps you killed him to preserve a timeline or something,” he offers.

“That's nonsense!” the Doctor splutters. “First off, it doesn't work like that. Secondly, why would I then bring in this lot to help solve the crime?” he asks, gesturing to Doyle.

“Ah yes, your close friends and hand-picked detectives. Certainly unbiased observers,” Asimov replies airily. “We really don't have a guarantee that they aren't the murderers themselves. After all, who knows how time works in this cabinet of yours?” he asks cagily. 

“This is madness,” Cleopatra announces at last. “None of us are armed. Even if one of us is the murderer, he would have to overpower all three of us. Be careful, but do not be foolish. Come: we have a killer to catch.” Just then, the disk begins to flash.

***

A man in the police box, the voice had said. Kill the man in the police box, it whispered, and I will reward you. Bela hadn't had a very strong opinion on the matter before, but given that the police were chasing him and he needed a place to hide, the police box was as good a place as any. 

He thought he'd gone mad when he stepped into the little box and found it vaster by far. Lots of nice places to hide and wait for someone to walk past. Almost too many places to hide: he wasn't sure if the box kept changing things on him, or if he was simply that lost. Sooner or later he would find his way out, he reasoned. Unless he was in Hell, which he deserved. On the other hand, he didn't feel dead, and the voice that had promised the reward didn't sound like an angel or a devil. Perhaps he had killed the wrong man. Oh well, he mused as two men and a young woman walked towards his hiding spot. He would get another chance.

***

Jenny hears the sounds of movement over the heated conversation between Carver and Tesla, and lowers herself into a fighting stance as the attacker comes into view. He is holding a bloody knife and she is unarmed, but she doesn't let that bother her as she presses the homing button and closes fearlessly with him. She ducks his opening slash and grabs his wrist, twisting it until he screams with pain and drops his weapon. Hungarian, she thinks, based on the accent and the sound of the invective. She wonders idly if madame would like goulash as she flips the larger man over her shoulder.

Bela hadn't expected the girl to be a ninja, or a demon, or whatever she was. He could hear her footsteps behind him as he fled. What good was a reward if he didn't live long enough to use it? At least there were plenty of places to hide, he thinks. If only he could get out of sight long enough to slip away... He laughed, madly, to himself. If only there were another police box inside the police box, an endless jumble of nesting corridors where he could escape. He laughed again, bitterly this time. Who knew what sort of hellspawn would await him if he went deeper into the maze? He looked back over his shoulder to glance at his pursuer; when he faced forward again, he saw nothing but stars.

“Well,” Vastra announces, rubbing her fist, “It seems we have apprehended our fugitive killer.”

“So you have,” the Doctor notes as the rest of them slowly catch up and fill the room. He kneels and slaps him awake as Vastra's heel presses into the prone man's chest. 

“Who are you?” Vastra asks, snarling.

His eyes go wide with terror. “Bela! Bela Kiss.” 

The Doctor nods, and grabs the killer by the chin and turns Bela's face to stare into his eyes. “Look here,” he says. “You got into my ship. How?”

“The voices,” Bela says. “They told me to come in. The door was open.”

“Voices?” the Doctor prods. “Whose?”

“Don't know,” Bela admits. 

“You're lucky torture doesn't work,” Jenny notes. “Who is he, Doctor?”

“Bela Kiss. Hungarian serial killer with over twenty victims to his name. Never seen again after 1916. Must have snuck aboard while I was composing with Bela Bartok: no relation.” He shrugs, a cruel smile on his face. “I leave him in your custody, detectives. I think I'd best take everyone else home. TARDIS is getting a little crowded.”

“You'll never be able to convict me,” Bela boasts.

“Convict you?” Vastra asks. “No, I plan to kill you. And then I shall eat you.”

“Does save on our grocery bill,” Jenny informs him pleasantly.

***

He watches eyelessly as they march Bela out of the TARDIS and into a carriage. He sees the Doctor wave goodbye. Curses, he thinks. Utter failure. Well, he can focus his attention on the Doctor's friends, now. So many places where his nemesis can feel agony. Still, with Bela out of the way, he will need to recruit another pawn for his continuing plans. Soon, with any luck, he will be able to adopt a more coherent physical form than a mere ghostly whisper. Still, even that can be effective on these superstitious humans, he thinks. There is much more of the game to play, he thinks, and vanishes.

***

The rest of the day seems to fly by for Jenny and Vastra, and they take Bela home to stew while they help Doyle with that crime scene of his, and it is almost time for dinner until the burglar is in Scotland Yard's hands. 

“Do you suppose Marlowe would have written more plays? If Bela hadn't killed him?” Jenny asks, ladling out a fair portion of the latter for Vastra, and some lamb stew with the same seasonings for herself.

“Perhaps,” Vastra says, taking a spoonful. “But perhaps not. He was a famous playwright, after all, perhaps famous enough for his death to be one of those fixed points the Doctor mentioned.”

“London was—and still is—a dangerous place,” Jenny agrees. “What about Bela?”

“Delicious,” Vastra deadpans.

“You know perfectly well what I meant, madame,” Jenny accuses her wife, leveling her spoon at her.

“In answer to your question, no, I am afraid I do not know what the voices he claimed to hear might be, or if they are linked to any other cases. All I know is that we must keep our eyes open—and our ears.” She kisses Jenny in apology, and eats her stew in silence for a moment, then frowns.

“Did I miss a bone? There are always those little finicky ones...”

“No, dearest, I was merely thinking.” She pauses again, taking another bite of the spicy stew. “Would you be interested in taking another person into our bed from time to time? Mary Shelley propositioned me on the TARDIS.”

Jenny laughs. “Depends on who it is, I suppose. You didn't take her up on it, then?” 

“No, of course not,” Vastra replies, drawing herself up. 

“Didn't think you would,” Jenny replies, caressing her wife's arm, smiling at the familiar, scaly texture. “Some other time, perhaps,” she offers, grinning.

“Perhaps,” Vastra says. “I do rather like having you all to myself.”

“Very good, madame,” Jenny recites behind a dutiful mask, peeking out at the end with a saucy wink. 

“You are too good to me, dear Jenny,” Vastra tells her, thinking of all of the work her wife puts into their business and their marriage.

“Nonsense,” Jenny replies, reflecting upon the new worlds that Vastra had opened up for her and encouraged her to explore. “Let's just call it even.”

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger: Jenny and Vastra get their man, and there is some bloodless mention of Vastra eating him. Also, infidelity is discussed.
> 
> Whenever the Doctor cringes, you may safely assume a reference to the events of The Angels Take Manhattan.
> 
> The Doctor has picked up quite the caravan for this story, which is a great/lazy way for our heroines to interact with some different people outside their usual bounds of time and space. Mary Shelley was widely hailed as the inventor of science fiction, traveled with the Eighth Doctor, and dated the married Percy Shelley before marrying him herself. Nikola Tesla was the cream of the 'eccentric genius' crop with a talent for electricity and a phobia of hair; we might see some more of him. Cleopatra the Alchemist was credited with inventing the alembic, a kind of alchemical still, and was said to be one of four women capable of creating the philosopher's stone, a process which requires the use of mercury (a substance, not coincidentally, found in the fluid link within the TARDIS console). Isaac Asimov wrote copiously, penning mysteries, nonfiction texts, and science fiction works, including Fantastic Voyage, which features characters shrunk down to the point where they can enter a human body at the cellular level. George Washington Carver was an African-American inventor who devised more uses for the common peanut than you can shake a stick at. Tycho Brahe was an ill-tempered astronomer who died under slightly mysterious circumstances, now thought to be mercury poisoning. And Christopher Marlowe is still a playwright contemporary of Shakespeare's, murdered in a barfight--or so history tells us.
> 
> The Doctor's joke about Bela Kiss and Bela Bartok being unrelated is funnier if you know that a Hungarian gives his family name first. The Doctor has gotten things a bit tangled up, which should come as no surprise to anyone. Bela Kiss is a Hungarian serial killer who vanished in 1916; Bela Bartok is a Hungarian composer of the same time period.


End file.
